Volume 2 — The Recruit.
Reading edition
By HORTENSE FLEXNER.
He had a woodland look—half-startled, gay—
As if his eyes, light-thirsty, had not learned
To wake accustomed on earth's joyous day,
A child, whose merriment and wonder burned
In harmless flame, even his uniform
Was but a lie to hide his wind-wild grace,
Whose limbs were rounded youth, too supple, warm,
To hold the measure of the street-made pace.
Music and marching—colors in the sky—
The crowded station, then the train—farewell!
For all he had the glance, exultant, shy,
That seemed to marvel, "More to see—to tell!"
Yet with his breathing moved, hid by his coat,
A numbered, metal disk, strapped round his throat!